


Gonna Keep on Loving You

by prettyboyporter



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21742015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyboyporter/pseuds/prettyboyporter
Summary: Billy and Steve hadn’t voiced their desires. Hadn’t yet acted on them, even though it almost happened, so close, when Steve was in town at Thanksgiving and he had everyone over his parents’ house -- mom and dad were out visiting Uncle Gary in Pittsburgh -- and he stood out back by the bonfire with Billy, face fire-hot in the cool November air and the smell of burning wood surrounded him and sound of it crackled in his ears. Steve stepped closer to Billy whose eyes were half-lidded, blue and sparkling with the flickering orange flames reflected in them, and Billy licked his lips and his eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth, but Nancy came outside and said,dinner’s ready guys! Mom said get in here now and get a plate before the kids eat everything!.Steve got spooked and peeled away, shaking hands on the sliding glass door, tapping fingers on the china as he ladled gravy onto his turkey and mashed potatoes.And now he’d be sharing a bed with Billy.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 62
Kudos: 276
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2019





	Gonna Keep on Loving You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hippiebuckyharrington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippiebuckyharrington/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, hippiebuckyharrington! 
> 
> Christmastime, 1988.

Last night’s snowstorm covered I-94 in a thick blanket. East Lansing, Michigan was not _quite_ far enough from Indiana for Steve to avoid this particular form of Midwestern hell.

The beemer’s tires held steady as he navigated through the white-grey piles. On the highway’s two lanes, only one set of dark tracks sprawled out in front of him, carved out courtesy of other travelers coming or going for the holidays.

It’s not like Steve wasn’t used to driving in it. He was _born_ into harsh winters. People talked with authority about how to get a car out of a snow bank. What to do if you slide. Argued about the best set of winter tires, though they all agreed on the necessity of snow chains. A good driving pace in snow and ice took _time_ to perfect. 

Not slow, not too fast. 

Two and a half hours is what it would take for Steve to get from Michigan State University to the cabin in Michigan City, Indiana. He’d factored in extra time for tricky spots or delays in the country areas of I-94.

Last night, Steve completed the last item on his checklist and wrote the final report for his managerial accounting class before thinking about this trip. He finished typing up his analysis at the library, grabbed it off of the printer, and dropped it at his professor’s office before returning to his apartment to make mixtapes for this drive. 

One month out of high school, Steve never would’ve predicted that in two years he’d be in his junior year at MSU. He’d resigned himself as a pretty face with a brain meant for manning a cash register -- certainly not for studying. But then two Novembers ago, Billy suggested community college -- said it as the passed a joint in the Camaro, bellies full of Thanksgiving turkey, heat blasting, the air inside warm and heady. Everything moved slow, slow that night. _You’re not dumb, pretty boy. Stop underestimating yourself._

Billy was right. Steve started in January and the setting was smaller. He wasn’t out to impress anyone or think about his social life instead of schoolwork. He was finally able to earn decent grades without peeking at Tiff Girimonte’s papers -- Robin and Billy both pitched him to help him along the way, taught him how to study. How to take notes. Sat with him while he wrote papers and did homework. Two years of attending Indiana Community College and here he was at MSU, heading for a degree in hospitality business.

In the beemer, he popped in the first cassette. The opening guitar riffs of INXS’s _Need You Tonight_ filled the car, and he took a sip of coffee. 

Steve pulled up to the cabin two hours and thirty-five minutes later and saw the row of familiar cars lined up in back: Mrs. Henderson’s yellow Volvo. Joyce’s Pinto. The Sinclair’s minivan. Hopper’s Blazer. The Wheelers’ wood-paneled station wagon.

And, fully restored to all of its dark blue metallic glory, the Camaro.

**~*~**

The inside of the cabin was in _chaos_. 

Steve set down his duffle bag after he walked through the oversized wooden front doors. Several things were happening at once. Joyce and Mrs. Henderson were already wine drunk, laughing loudly over glasses of red at the large dining table (Steve felt all warm about that, though, because no one deserved to be wine drunk at 1pm on a Wednesday more than Joyce and Mrs. Henderson). 

Mrs. Sinclair emerged from one of the rooms with Mr. Sinclair right behind her. She turned and sighed at him, hands on her hips. “Honey, I told you _three times_ that Jack said he couldn’t make it, even though Erica wanted him to join us, and even if he could’ve gotten away, all of the rooms here are filled up-” and the rest of her statement was drowned out by other noises.

“You drank my Coke, _assface_ ,” Erica yelled at Lucas in the kitchen. “That bottle was clearly labeled with my name. 

Lucas crossed his arms. “Not my fault that you didn’t account for condensation when considering your choice in adhesives!” He whipped open the fridge door to reveal a note lying on the bottom shelf, a piece of scotch tape across the top of it. 

“You did that.” She pointed to the fallen label. “On. Purpose.”

“Did not.”

“I hate you, Lucas Charles Sinclair!” 

“I hate you _more_!” 

Dustin, Max, Will were seated on the couch arguing loudly over each other about whether or not _Faces of Death_ was actually _real_ (Dustin and Max both thought yes, Will insisted it was fake, totally fake, how can you guys not _tell_ that, wow just -- wow). 

Somewhere down the hall, Mrs. Wheeler yelled, “Michael, get in here and clean up this mess you made _right now_!” 

Mike was in the hallway kissing El. He broke apart from her to roll his eyes and smile down at her. At least they were being quiet, Steve thought.

Nancy was trying to wrangle a large, barking German Shepherd onto a leash. She attempted to talk over the dog, saying, “Jesus Christ Jonathan bringing Sampson was your idea, you could at least help me take him for a walk. This is goddamn ridiculous.” 

Ted Wheeler stated, “Language!” from behind his newspaper on an easy chair while Holly pressed letters on a loud, tinny-sounding Speak & Spell next to him. 

Hopper slid open the glass doors to where he was standing outside smoking on the deck and yelled, “Knock it off!” at Nancy’s dog, and it stopped barking. Nancy looked back over her shoulder at Hop, her expression grateful. 

Jonathan was just taking pictures of everything. 

“Steve! Honey!” Mrs. Henderson cried as soon as she looked up from Joyce. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the wine. “Come in come in come in!” She tugged him down by his shoulders and immediately he was greeted by the scent of Chanel No. 5 perfume and Vidal Sassoon hairspray. He swayed down into her embrace -- her smell a familiar comfort. 

“Sorry I got here so late, Mrs. Henderson. Had to finish up one last thing up at school.” 

She reached up a hand to cup his cheek. “Never you mind. We’re all so proud of how you’re doing up there. Don’t forget us all when you're managing some fancy hotel in Morocco.” 

The rush of affection returned -- the feeling he’d always had for Claudia Henderson, because she’d always been the one to insist he sit at the table and eat dinner with them, to press banana bread to his chest through his car window and to give him a hand-knit stocking on Christmas Eve with a tangerine in the toe filled with walnuts, chocolates, candy canes, and a copy of the Henderson Christmas Cassette 1985. 1986. 1987. No doubt he’d receive 1988’s tonight. He’d bought a blouse for her from JCPenney for her birthday in June, and she wore it on Fridays to work. It was late one night a year ago when he was getting ready to leave Dustin’s, and he sat with her on the couch -- under the influence of home-cooked meatloaf and apple crumble, Steve fell apart on her shoulder when she asked _What is it, Steve? You can tell me._. 

That rush was followed by the same immediate wave of guilt that he felt none of these things toward his actual mother. “I’ll save you the best room, Mrs. Henderson.” 

Suddenly, a grimace washed across her face. She pulled her hand back. “Speaking of rooms. Sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Stevie, but all of the rooms are taken right now, and you’ll have to share.” 

Steve’s mouth ran dry. “Yeah? One of the rooms got an extra bed or something? Because I don’t mind bunking up.” 

She sighed. “There are no rooms with an extra bed, but there _is_ one room that has a queen-sized bed. But you’ll have to share it with Billy Hargrove.” 

“Oh.” 

“You boys seem to have made friends over the years and I thought-”

“Yeah, no, that’s right, I-”

“And it’s a big bed, and he seems okay with it-” 

“Yeah, right I mean. It’s fine. Cool.”

“You don’t mind? Really?”

“Not at all Mrs. Henderson. It’s cool!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry! Because I thought we’d have enough rooms for everyone when I picked this place out-”

“Hey, no no no. Don’t do that. Don’t worry. It’s perfect.” 

“Really? You don’t mind?”

“Not one bit. Billy and I are like two peas in a pod. It’ll be great.” 

“You sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

She smiled up at him, still flushed, warm with wine, and tugged him down into another quick hug. “You’re a good boy, Steve Harrington. Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas Mrs. Henderson.” 

Steve picked up his bag and made his way down the hall. He twisted the strap in his hands and as if looking at the wood trim of the high-vaulted ceilings might make him forget the letters that they had written to each other. The phone calls late at night, lasting until the sun turned the horizon bronze and yellow, Venus visible as he hung up the phone. The _flirting_. 

The connection between them started smoldering over the years and intensified in a way that reminded Steve of when he visited the beach -- how the cool morning sand would heat up as the day progressed and the next thing Steve knew it would burn white-hot under his feet and he had to tip-toe across, and when did that happen?

When did that happen -- Steve asked himself again as he regarded the beams above. Sometime over the last three and a half years this friendship that started because of their Starcourt trauma shifted, a gradual heating of the sand, until two nights ago when Steve hung up the phone at four thirty in the morning after Billy’d said, _Miss you, pretty boy. Can hardly wait to see that stupid face of yours,_ and Steve placed the receiver in the cradle and jerked off, had already been secretly cupping himself to the sound of Billy’s voice purring in his ear, thinking about what it would be like to kiss a boy. To have Billy against him, hot and hard. 

They hadn’t voiced their desires. Hadn’t yet acted on them, even though it almost happened, so close, when Steve was in town at Thanksgiving and he had everyone over his parents’ house -- mom and dad were out visiting Uncle Gary in Pittsburgh -- and he stood out back by the bonfire with Billy, face fire-hot in the cool November air and the smell of burning wood surrounded him and sound of it crackled in his ears. Steve stepped closer to Billy whose eyes were half-lidded, blue and sparkling with the flickering orange flames reflected in them, and Billy licked his lips and his eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth, but Nancy came outside and said, _dinner’s ready guys! Mom said get in here now and get a plate before the kids eat everything!_. 

Steve got spooked and peeled away, shaking hands on the sliding glass door, tapping fingers on the china as he ladled gravy onto his turkey and mashed potatoes. 

And now he’d be sharing a bed with Billy. 

**~*~**

Steve peeked into the rooms as he made his way down the hall until he found the third on the left. There was a bed with a hunter green comforter, a long, wooden dresser, and a steelhead trout mounted on the wall above it. Hanging above the bed was a painting of a beach at sunset. 

A black bag sat on the foot of the bed, but there was no sign of Billy in the room. 

Steve plopped his duffle bag down next to the black bag, and that’s when he heard the floorboards creak behind him. “That’s my side, pretty boy,” Billy said with his arms crossed. He leaned against the doorway. 

A sly little smile crossed Billy’s lips. He wore a navy blue button-up tucked neatly into a pair of jeans with black boots. He’d come a _long_ way since recovering from his injuries from the mindflayer. He looked healthy now -- some of that bulk had returned from his hours of lifting heavy bags of grain at the local brewery.

Steve fumbled for a second -- his first instinct was to _hug_ Billy but he fought it down, pushed that shit away as soon as it had ballooned up. He stepped forward once and stood there instead. Put his hands on his hips. “Yeah well. Looks like it’s my side now.” 

Billy stepped closer and tilted his head. “That so?” 

“That’s how it’s gonna have to be, Billy. I’d say sorry, but. I’m not. It’s my side now.” 

Billy reached out and fisted Steve’s sweatshirt and the second Steve thought that maybe he’d pushed the teasing too far, but Billy shifted and pulled him into an embrace. “Glad you didn’t die on the highway on some snowbank.” 

Steve felt the gentle press of Billy’s chest against his, inhaled the cologne at the base of Billy’s neck, and placed his hand flat in the middle of Billy’s back. “And I’m glad the mindflayer didn’t kill you three years ago.” 

“Yeah, well. Me fuckin too,” Billy said as he stepped back. “Cmon. Hopper heard you come in and fixed us something to eat.” 

“I’m sorry did you just say _Hopper_ , like as in Jim Hopper, just fixed us some food?” 

“Yeah. He heard Mrs. Henderson fussing over you and told me to come get you and bring you out to the deck. Said you’d probably had some whiteknuckle drive over from State and he’d fix us up some lunch. I don’t know, man.” 

“I’m scared.” 

Billy nudged Steve’s shoulder with his own as they walked out of the room. “Shit. Me too.”

**~*~**

Steve ate the last bite of his bratwurst. “Mm Hop. Swear to god I thought you were gonna like, just give me some grilled cheese you made on an ironing board or something.” 

“Hey,” Hopper said as he drank from his flask, then pointed at Steve with the same hand. “Mr. Mom knew what he was doing. Don’t disrespect the man like that.”

Steve held up his hands defensively. “No offence intended. Thanks for lunch. Didn’t realize how hungry I was until I started eating.” 

“Here,” Hopper said, and handed over his flask. 

“What’s in it?”

“Don’t _ask_ , just _drink_ , Harrington.” 

Steve took a sip and peaty, malty whisky washed down his throat, warm and comforting. “Jesus. That’s good.” 

“Yeah no shit. I gave up buying rotgut in bulk. Came back from Russia and lost all taste for shitty booze. Only the finest from here on out, gentlemen.” 

Steve offered the flask back, but Hopper gestured over to Billy. 

Billy took the flask and drank. “Fuck man. That _is_ high quality. Why share with us? What’s the special occasion?” 

Hopper sat forward, forearms on his knees, and laced his fingers together. “Just happy that you two can be in the same room now and not beat the shit out of each other. You’re now up to a room-sharing level of courtesy, and let’s just say that I'm overjoyed that I didn’t have to bring my handcuffs with me.”

Steve pointedly did _not_ look to his left but could just feel Billy’s eyes on him. “Yeah. I mean we’re cool now so no handcuffs necessary.” 

“I don’t know, Hop.” Billy handed the flask back to Steve, and Steve took a long drink. “You should lend em to me. Harrington here gets unruly, I can just cuff him up to the bed.” 

Steve choked on the whisky. 

Hop took back the flask. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Let’s, I don’t know. Go be social.” 

As Hopper slid open the patio door, Steve rolled his eyes at Billy, and Billy squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “Just being a good citizen, Harrington.” 

**~*~**

The next six hours _flew_ by. Steve ended up all over the house -- in the Sinclairs’ room with Billy playing Trivial Pursuit with Erica and of course Steve got his ass handed to him, but it was worth it to watch them gloat together, as if beating Steve at a trivia game was akin to winning Jeopardy or some shit. Then Steve shot the shit with Jonathan and Nancy, griping about school since they were both studying at NYU and had similar gripes. Dinner happened and Steve sat between Dustin and Billy, who fought over the last of Mrs. Henderson’s fruit salad (Dustin jabbed Billy with _orc_ and Billy came back with _stupid little Took_ and the both looked mortally offended and the other and Steve didn’t understand one goddamn thing about what whas happening there -- but he managed to scarf the last of the fruit salad while they were arguing, so score one for Steve). 

And then, Euchre. At this point, Billy and Max were an unstoppable team. They’d mastered this midwestern rite of passage card game and put everyone to _shame_ , beating every pair that challenged them. Hopper and Claudia. Lucas and Will. Mr. Sinclair and Jonathan. _None_ of those pairs stood a chance against Billy and Max. Pair by pair left the dining convinced that Billy and Max had devised some sort of intricate cheating system that only Californians knew, or something. 

But Billy and Max hadn’t yet tried playing against Steve and Joyce as partners. Steve sat across the table from her, deceptively innocent and small with giant brown eyes peeking up under him from behind her cards with a _perfect_ poker face and Steve somehow knew what suit she wanted to be trump. He was pretty sure he could read her mind at this point. 

It was a _close_ game. Steve and Joyce had nine points, but so did Max and Billy. Whoever took the next trick would win the game. Since it was the last turn, they didn’t bother following the rule about who should lay down their card first -- they each laid down their single remaining card at the same time. 

Steve had the Jack of diamonds -- the highest card since diamonds was trump -- which meant Steve and Joyce and taken the trick and won the game.

“Oh _shit_!” Joyce yelled. “We goddamn _euched_ them! Steve you had the right bower!” 

Max glared daggers at Billy. “What the hell did you call that on? Like, an ace and a nine?” 

Billy shrugged one shoulder. “Gotta count on your partner for one. Why couldn’t I count on you _Maxine_?”

Max leaned forward. “Because I had all clubs, _William_. I was gonna go alone.” 

Billy looked over toward Steve. “If you have the chance to call it, you _gotta_ take that chance. Am I right, pretty boy?”

“Yep,” Steve agreed.

“I just didn’t know _this_ guy had the right.” Billy leaned over the corner and got about five inches from Steve’s face. “This fucker sat here like some cute little forest animal with the goddamn right bower up his sleeve just waiting to own my ass. Harrington sitting here looking like goddamn Bambi when really he’s a coiled snake.”

Steve leaned over, too -- made it just two inches separating them. “Did -- did you just call me cute?” Before Billy could react, Steve tilted his head, took Billy’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and gave Billy’s cheek a sloppy-ass wet kiss. His lips _smacked_ against Billy’s skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Harrington,” Billy said, affronted. But he didn’t pull back, nor did he shove Steve away.

Max and Joyce started howling with laughter. “Cmon,” Joyce said to Max. “I’ll let you have a glass of wine, but you can’t tell Susan. God she’d be so pissed at me.”

“Susan’s spending the weekend with Tim and his family. She doesn’t even know I _exist_ right now, let alone that I’m about to have _one_ glass of wine,” Max said as they walked into the kitchen. Joyce put her arm around Max’s shoulders. 

Steve found himself alone in the room with Billy, which was miraculous considering the number of people in this cabin. The corner of this card table seemed so small now, and suddenly, Billy was so close. He could smell the beer on Billy’s breath. “Get your paper turned in yesterday?” 

The side of Billy’s foot touched Steve’s under the table, and Steve returned the pressure. “Yeah. I did. Last second, but I think I it came out decent enough.”

“All of that stress but you still got it done. See? Remember what I told you two years ago?”

“That you knew I could handle college. That I underestimated myself.” 

“Pretty good memory there, pretty boy. I fuckin told you so.” 

Steve lifted his foot under the table against Billy’s. “Yeah, well. You haven’t done so bad yourself. You started out rough after Starcourt, Billy. And look at you now.” 

Billy scooted his chair in even closer to Steve. “I wouldn’t have made it through that summer.” Billy paused and looked up into Steve’s eyes. “Not without your help.” 

Steve remembered how Billy was after Starcourt. Two months in a hospital where he didn’t speak to _anyone_. 

Steve was the first person to hear Billy’s voice. Steve was the first person who was not a medical professional who saw Billy’s scars -- who helped Billy wash himself around multiple casts. For hours Steve listened to records and cassettes with Billy, came over and played football with the kids in Billy’s yard while Billy watched, played cards with Billy and started to teach him euchre, brought videos, even read him books, until Billy finally _finally_ opened up and started talking to Steve -- started talking to everyone again after that. 

Billy went outside to meet the world again in the September sunshine. And under the cover of trees standing sentinel, the fading sun shining on the halo of treetops, yellow-orange-red leaves in a flame of sunlight above, Billy confessed to Steve that he felt terrified that the whole thing would happen _again_ and that he didn’t even trust his own voice to be _his own_ if he opened his mouth. 

In the cabin, Billy wiped his hand down across his face. ““If you wouldn’t have been there through that dark cloud stuff -- fuck, man. I don’t know. I don’t think I would’ve left that bedroom.” 

Steve pulled his foot back and knocked against Billy’s once before returning gentle pressure. “But you _did_. No point in what-if-ing. _You_ did that.”

Billy regarded Steve for a moment -- blue eyes looking into Steve’s so intently. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Billy smiled. “Tired yet?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, feeling more awake than he ever had in his entire life. “I’m wiped out.” 

“Ready for bed?” Billy had a little grin on his lips -- he tried to smooth over his expression -- but it was there.

“Yeah I’m ready.” 

After a round of goodnights, they retreated back to their room, and Steve closed the door behind him, heart rabbit-fast in his chest. 

**~*~**

In the dark, Steve lay next to Billy and was hyper-aware of every single part of his own body -- every hair on his arm, every microscopic movement of his leg. The duvet was pulled taut between them. There were four inches between his arm and Billy’s. Those particular four inches felt both like the Grand Canyon and also like the amount of space that existed between an atom’s nucleus and its electron, and Steve could _not_ figure out how it could be both at the same time. 

“How’s everything going at the brewery?” Steve asked quietly. The walls seemed to be pretty thick in the cabin as he hadn’t heard a peep out of Hop and El’s room next door, but still. He didn’t want to take any chances. Didn’t really want to piss Hopper off in any form these next two days. Next to him, he felt a shift and dip in the bed as Billy turned on his side to face Steve. 

“Good,” Billy whispered. “Fucking, fantastic, actually -- I’m, like, surprised at how much I like this job. The pay’s not great and it’s hard goddamn work, man. Long hours, busting ass all day.”

Steve turned on his side, too, and faced Billy. With the winter moonlight slicing between the curtains, he could make out the dark blond curls on the pillow. Could see a glint of light in one of Billy’s blue eyes. “Am I missing something? How is that _good_?”

Billy paused and Steve looked at the form of Billy’s face in front of him and could just barely see Billy biting his lip. “I thought it would be some shit job just tossing around grain bags and drinking beer all day for free. I don’t have to talk to that many people while I’m working, and after I was released from the hospital -- well. I mean, you remember. Talking to people wasn’t really my _thing_. So I appreciated that. And I kinda dig the process. It’s, like, science and creativity, y'know? To taste the end product of my hard work -- that’s rewarding. Then there are people who line up at the brewery’s store to buy beer I made. That shit feels fuckin good.”

Steve shifted his hand and it knocked against Billy’s, fingers touching under the covers. “Ever thought about striking out on your own? Opening up your own brewery?” 

And then Billy laced his fingers through Steve’s. “Yeah, pretty boy. I have.” 

Steve inhaled sharply at the sensation which, in the quiet darkness, sounded loud in his own ears. He felt glad he was already lying down for fear of falling over. Felt silly, like some Victorian woman whose corset was laced too tight. “What’s holding you back?”

Billy was quiet. Steve slid his foot forward under the duvet, searching. Found Billy’s foot and slid his foot on top. “I’m biding my time.” 

Steve ran his thumb over the back of Billy’s hand and even if he wasn’t already trying to be quiet, his next words came out so soft. “For what?” 

“A few things. Putting together a decent nest egg.” Billy tugged Steve’s hand against his chest and Steve felt the heat of Billy’s skin radiating through his t-shirt -- felt the rippled bumps of the scar underneath like the ridges of a mountain against his hand. “There are a few other variables, too.” 

Even in the darkness, Steve could still see the outlines of Billy’s long lashes. “Gonna tell me what those are?” 

Billy kissed the back of Steve’s hand. “Nah. Not now.” 

Silence fell between them, and Billy pulled Steve’s hand back to his chest. His eyes fell shut and Steve didn’t really feel sleepy, but he tried closing his eyes, too. Tried to see how Billy could even attempt to sleep while their hands and feet were tangled together. And he found the weight of Billy’s hand and the heat of Billy’s body soothing. It’d been a long time since he slept next to someone he cared for deeply. He found himself growing tired. 

Some time later, Billy whispered, “Night, Stevie.” 

“Night Bills.” 

Billy didn’t let go of Steve’s hand, and they both drifted off to sleep. 

**~*~**

The room was still dark when Steve opened his eyes. He was wrapped around Billy’s back, his arm jammed up underneath Billy’s. Billy’s hand rested on top of Steve’s. 

His nose was nestled in Billy’s curls. Uncertainty and anxiety ratcheted up his spine and twisted up in his gut, his own mind telling him that Billy wouldn’t want Steve to be like this, that surely if he was awake, Billy would throw him off. 

Steve tried to pull back, tiny movements at a time. Suddenly, he felt Billy’s hand clamp down on top of his own. “Don’t go,” Billy whispered. “Please.”

Steve settled back down -- pulled Billy back against his chest. “Okay,” he said. He pressed a kiss to the back of Billy’s neck. “Okay.” 

**~*~**

The next morning sunlight brightened the green curtains and Steve became aware of several things: the scent of bacon and coffee and the sound of the kids arguing over some fucking thing in the living room -- and then there was the sight of Billy’s head on his chest, curls falling everywhere. 

Steve touched his fingers on top of Billy’s curls lightly, like he was afraid that moving Billy’s hair too much might wake up but the urge to fuck with Billy’s hair was _overwhelming_. He managed to trace the length of one long lock all the way from root to tip, marveling at it, when Billy inhaled and lifted his head. 

“Hey,” Billy said, and a bigass grin spread across his face. 

“Morning.” Steve ran his hand up over Billy’s shoulder, up the side of his neck, onto his cheek. Ran his thumb over course stubble. It felt fucking _sexy_. 

Billy’s eyes went dark. 

Steve pressed at the back of Billy’s neck a bit, just gentle pressure to urge him into movement, but Billy was already pushing up, surging forward and then. 

And then Billy kissed Steve. 

Steve sat up quickly and took control of the kiss, pushed Billy onto his back and leaned over him. 

“Bossy,” Billy pulled back long enough to say. 

Steve changed the angle and this time placed one gentle kiss to Billy’s lips -- traced his fingers along Billy’s jaw and pulled back, lips hovering just over Billy’s. Billy sat up to try to steal a kiss but Steve pulled back again, causing Billy to miss. Steve pressed another gentle kiss to Billy’s lips and then lengthened it, ran his hand down Billy’s neck, over his chest, and palmed his left pec before touching his tongue to the seam of Billy’s lips. 

When Steve licked into Billy’s mouth, he also ran his thumb over Billy’s nipple all pebbled up and hard and Steve wanted to get his lips on it _now_. Billy moaned, long and low. 

Three sharp knocks at the bedroom door sent Steve flying off of Billy. “ _Steve_ we need you in the living room _right_ goddamn now!” Dustin shouted. 

There was a muffled protest, maybe Will, Steve thought, from the other side of the door. 

“Come on Steve. Get your lazy ass out of bed and help me out here, buddy. We have an urgent matter to discuss-”

“What the hell could be so urgent at seven thirty in the goddamn morning, Henderson?” Steve asked loudly.

There was a long pause. “It’s _sensitive_ information, Steve. Classified. Top. Secret. Even from these assholes.”

A chorus of protest went up in the background. 

Billy scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fuck. Jesus fucking christ.” 

“Meet back in here after dinner?” Steve asked, leaning over to get another kiss. 

“Fuck ‘em. We’ll just stay in here all day.” Billy said as he reached over to trace up Steve’s thigh. 

“They’ll break down the door if we do,” Steve said and lifted Billy’s hand to kiss the back of it -- faint little scars there under his lips. 

Billy sighed and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go see what the dipshits want.” 

Steve let Billy get up first, if only to admire the rock-hard erection straining against his briefs. 

**~*~**

There was a Secret Santa gift exchange that day. 

Christmas was still a week away, but the kids had organized a kids-only gift exchange and the adults did the same between themselves. 

Steve sat in a sea of crinkling wrapping paper. He had picked Mike Wheeler’s name and honest to god he had _no_ goddamn idea what in the living hell to get Mike, wasn’t even sure if Mike even _liked_ anything apart from El. So Steve picked up a t-shirt that had a pair of fake cartoon boobs wearing a green and white bikini top on it with “MSU” written across the bikini top. 

Mike was thrilled -- even more surprising, though, was that El threatened to steal it from him. 

Steve figured he did his job well. 

Steve opened his gift, wrapped in New Kids on the Block wrapping paper, which, that bold of a choice in paper alone was enough of a gift for Steve. He tore it off to find a little box and pulled off the lid. Inside was a metal keychain with “S.H.” engraved on it. 

“Made it in shop class,” Erica Sinclair said as she took a seat next to Steve, raising one eyebrow as she looked at her own work, like she was noticing some detail that could use fixing. 

“They have shop class at the middle school now?” Steve asked. 

She looked up at him as if he were not the brightest bulb. “I have connections at the high school who may or may not have -- allegedly -- let me into shop after school a few times.”

“Erica, did you sneak in the high school to make me this for me?” 

She crossed her arms. “I will neither confirm nor deny that statement.”

He pocketed the keychain and pulled her against his side, giving her a little squeeze. “Thanks, kiddo. I love it.” 

“I’m glad you do. I had to dodge three staff members to make it happen.”

“How stealthy of you.”

She nodded. “Project Child Endangerment was an enlightening and formative time in my life.” 

Steve huffed a laugh and looked up to see Billy holding a small battery-operated table lamp. Will Byers sat next to Billy, talking and flipping the little switch so it lit up. Will _still_ looked bashful when he had Billy’s attention, even after all these years. Billy reached out to squeeze Will’s shoulder, and Will smiled back. 

Billy stood and walked back toward the hallway, glancing pointedly at Steve when he passed. 

Steve waited a couple of seconds and followed. 

As soon as Steve closed the door to their room, he pushed Billy against the dresser and kissed him, got his hands up on Billy’s cheeks, slid down his chest to his waist. 

Billy’s hand wandered over Steve’s belt, down toward his groin and stopped. “What’s in your pocket, sailor? That your old ice cream scoop, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Ah yeah,” Steve took out the keychain and pulled away from Billy to get his car keys from his coat pocket. He slid it on the ring. “Erica made this for me.” 

Billy looked at it. “Not bad. She’s gonna be an engineer one day and put us all to shame.” 

Steve touched the lamp that Billy had placed on the dresser. “What’s with the lamp?” 

Billy shrugged one shoulder. “Will wanted me to have it -- last item he removed from Castle Byers.” 

“Why this lamp, though? Why you?” 

“That, pretty boy,” Billy stole a kiss from Steve’s lips, “is between Will and me.” 

It was some sort of connection they’d shared from being under the mindflayer’s influence, Steve knew. They had a bond that no one else could understand -- and it worked for them. When Will and Billy talked it was quiet, removed, and seemed sacred, so Steve didn’t push the subject anymore. 

Instead, he went for Billy’s neck. He started at the base, down by Billy’s shoulder. Pressed an open-lipped kiss there, then one more right above it, tasted the salt on Billy’s skin. Felt warmth under his lips. 

Steve touched his tongue to Billy’s throat once then _licked_ up slowly. He felt Billy’s throat working under his tongue -- when Billy whisper, “god. _Steve_ ,” Steve felt it against his tongue. 

And then there was a knock at the door. “Billy?” Max said, her voice muffled. “Will you uhm -- come help me for a second? In my room?” 

Steve stepped back, his dick achingly hard, arching up toward his pocket. He reached back, gripped the footboard in his hands, and sighed heavily. 

Billy’s eyes flicked down to Steve’s bulge. “Tonight, Harrington.” 

“Yeah?” 

Billy stepped in and kissed him once. “I know exactly what Max wants. She wants me to braid her hair and do her makeup but for some goddamn reason she never wants to say that in front of anyone. And she’s got some shit she needs to get off her chest about Susan.” 

Steve nodded toward the door. “Spend some time with your little sister, Billy. She’s a good kid, and she needs you.” 

Billy reached down to give Steve’s ass a squeeze and a smack. “Later, Harrington.” 

“Yeah I’m gonna just.” Steve reached out and grabbed a copy of _Field and Stream_ off of the dresser and held it in front of his crotch. “I’ll stay here for a minute.” 

Billy winked at Steve and tugged open the door. 

“You know you guys just can’t _hide_ all weekend,” Steve heard Max say after Billy closed the door. 

Now that he was alone, Steve took that chance to pull a small gift out of his duffle bag -- a special one he’d wrapped last night in blue and silver wrapping paper -- and placed it on the dresser. 

**~*~**

When Billy and Max showed up to the dinner table a few hours later, Max had silver ribbons running through her braids, a little bit of bronze eyeshadow, mascara, and a touch of shiny lip gloss. 

“Max! You look pretty,” Steve said across the table. 

“Thanks,” she said, and glanced quickly over at Billy. “I had help.” 

Billy took a big bite of his burger and didn’t let on at all -- perfect poker face for his sister. 

After dinner, Steve volunteered for dishes duty along with Mrs. Henderson. They chatted amiably, Mrs. Henderson washing and Steve drying in front of the kitchen window. Snow fell gently outside and the bottom half of the window was steamed from the hot water in the sink. 

“How’s work?” she asked as she handed him a plate.

“Good. They keep putting me in different positions at the hotel so I get a feel for what it’s like to do each job. Next month I’ll start shadowing management. Classes are great and hospitality is just -- I dunno. It’s second nature to me, I guess.” 

She handed him a glass. “You found your calling. You’re meant for more than Hawkins, honey.” 

Steve smiled down at her as he dried the glass and dare not speak for the lump in his throat. 

She started washing a skillet. “Have you been dating up at MSU at all? Or just too busy partying up there?” 

“Neither, really, I guess. Just kind of focused on school and work.”

“Hm. It’s funny -- you’re not dating anyone. And I haven’t heard of Billy Hargrove dating anyone since he recovered from that accident at the mall.” 

Steve’s stomach sank to his _feet_ as he felt panic twist up in his belly. He looked around quickly and didn’t see anyone near. 

“It’s okay. No one’s gonna hear us over _that_.” She gestured out toward the living room, where Hopper had set up a speaker and microphone for karaoke. Currently, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were singing _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough_ as everyone was singing with them -- loudly and poorly. “If you’d like to, honey, you can tell me. But you absolutely do not have to if you don’t want to.” 

It was that same invitation of confidence from a year ago when Steve had tearfully confessed that he was bisexual to her. He hadn’t told that to _anyone_ besides Robin, and Mrs. Henderson hugged him -- told him he was just fine, so long as he was happy, and that’s when he cried on her shoulder for a half hour. 

“I don’t know what it is yet, this thing with Billy,” Steve said quietly, almost a whisper. “I don’t know what to call it.” 

She set down the skillet in the sink. “Would you call it good?” 

“Yeah,” he said. He felt tears slip down his cheeks. “It _is_ good.” 

“Then Steve? I don’t see the problem. You go for it. You chase it and you try to make him happy, and let him do the same for you. And if anyone ever dares to stand in your way? Just -- fuck em. You hear me? Fuck em, Steve.” She looked up at him. She looked _proud_.

He set down the towel and pulled her into him -- felt her arms slide around his waist. The embrace was everything he needed -- all of the validation he craved. 

“Steve honey.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re crushing my hair.” 

Steve laughed and lifted his cheek from the top of her head. “Sorry,” he said and wiped the tears from his face. 

She reached up and patted his cheek twice, then went back to the skillet in the sink. 

**~*~**

Billy switched off the light. In the dark, after all of the evening’s events had quieted down, Steve watched Billy walk over to the bed, a silhouette in the ambient light of the moon. 

The bed dipped down next to Steve and he wasted no time -- he leaned over and kissed Billy, felt Billy’s hand slide up into his hair. Billy hummed into Steve’s mouth and it was so sweet -- so fucking pure that Steve wanted to bottle it up, keep it around his neck -- Billy’s little hum hanging over his heart. 

When Steve licked into Billy’s mouth, Billy’s knees fell open. Steve picked up on the invitation and shifted, climbed between them, settling his body on Billy’s as he started making love to Billy’s neck with his lips. 

And that’s when Steve felt the hard line of Billy’s dick pressing up against his lower belly, grinding against him, and fuck Billy was still in his briefs and so was Steve. 

Steve sat back and started tugging down Billy’s underwear, got them down to Billy’s thighs before he had to sit back on his heels to make room. Billy finished pulling them off while Steve shoved his own briefs down, his dick rock hard, jutting out. 

He resettled between Billy’s legs and bent down to kiss Billy and felt the pressure of Billy’s cock against his own, kissed Billy deeply and wrapped his hand around them both. He pulled back long enough to lick his hand and return it to their cocks and it felt so _good_ , Billy so hard and hot against him, under him. 

“You’re so good, Billy,” Steve whispered against Billy’s cheek. Billy’s hand reached down and joined Steve’s and they started thrusting into the circle of their hands and Steve was _trying_ to be quiet, honestly trying but he was fucking babbling. Couldn’t help it. The words came spilling out, talking in a way he never had talked to anyone in bed before -- “feel amazing, baby -- I wanna see you -- gonna do this again in the morning so I can watch you fall apart.”

Tears leaked down Billy’s cheeks. 

Steve stilled. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Billy said huskily. “Just. Please don’t stop.” He hooked an ankle around Steve’s lower back and urged him into movement. 

“Yeah?” Steve asked and started kissing the scars on Billy’s chest -- worshipping them the way he’d wanted to do for _years_ , the bumps and waves of them like the dunes at Lake Michigan, rising, falling, rippled, each with its own story, each hiding pain and loss and Steve wanted to fill them with love. “Your scars are so beautiful, fuck.” His thrusts became more erratic and Billy’s fingers tightened around Steve’s bicep, and that was it, Billy tensed, huffed, and came between their fingers, kept stroking Steve though and Steve followed a moment later because jesus christ this was so _new_ and so hot. 

Steve slid behind Billy’s back, grabbed a bath towel laying nearby to wipe them clean. He curled around Billy’s back and it wasn’t long before sleep took over while his fingers traced the scars on Billy’s side. 

**~*~**

The next day, Billy pulled a gift box from his bag and the paper was taped at odd angles, sloppy. “This is adorable,” Steve said fondly at the gift. 

“Gotta open it, dipshit,” Billy said as he sat cross legged at the foot of the bed facing Steve. 

Steve tore open the paper. In his lap was a sketch of Steve holding a crown and Steve had _seen_ Billy drawing before, but Billy never would show him what he was drawing, and this sketch here -- the lines were soft, Steve was smiling, crown between his fingers, and three tiny little hearts were drawn by Steve’s neck. 

“I was gonna tell you today. With this gift. Doc Owens agreed and said it was time.” Billy’s fingers traced around Steve’s ankle. “But you beat me to the punch, Harrington. King Steve wins, as always.” 

Steve handed over the blue and silver papered gift, and Billy opened it and plucked the key out of the box inside. “It’s, ah.” He rubbed the back of the neck. “It’s the key to my place? I mean I know that’s weird, right? It’s weird. I just thought that maybe since we were getting closer and I’m always in class or working that whenever you had the chance you could I don’t know man, like come visit me or something. And you could just let yourself in?”

“Steve-”

“While I was in class and tired or behind the front desk on a slow night I’d just think about like. _What if I came home and Billy was already there?_ And that shit made me happy, y'know? It made class and work go by faster. So I went out and got an extra key made.” 

Billy grinned and glanced up at Steve. 

“Is it weird? This like, feels weird. Or something. It’s a stupid gift so-” 

“Steve?”

“Yeah.”

Billy crawled up the bed, up Steve’s body, and placed a gentle kiss to Steve’s lips. “I can hardly wait to use it. First chance I get, I’m coming up. Not telling you when. You’ll just have to be surprised.” 

Steve grinned back and ran his hand up Billy’s arm, shoulder, up to cup the back of his neck and hold him there, kissing him over and over, sighing into it until Joyce called, “Steve! Billy! You two gonna sleep all day or what! Breakfast is ready!” 

They managed to get dressed, somehow. Steve found he just couldn’t seem to keep his _hands_ off of Billy. 

**~*~**

Later that night, Steve unpacked his bag at his apartment. He pulled out the sketch of himself again -- traced his fingers over the linework. Noticed the crown had green and orange jewels in it, and Steve wore his Members Only jacket. This is how Billy saw Steve -- content and in control. Soft and relaxed. 

Steve flipped it over before he put it down and that’s when the handwriting caught his eye. 

There, on the bottom, written in Billy’s printing, read three sentences:

_I’ve loved you since October 28, 1984. At first loving you made me angry, but now that I died and some fucking way managed to back, that anger is gone. My scarred heart's gonna keep on loving you forever, pretty boy. XO, Billy_

**Author's Note:**

> prettyboyporter on tumblr


End file.
